


and we stick to our guns (and we love like battleships)

by consumptive_sphinx



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angry fluff?, Gratuitous Science, M/M, Rough Sex, is that a thing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 16:10:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6122047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/pseuds/consumptive_sphinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their self-destructive tendencies get the better of them, sometimes.</p><p>(Aaron thinks he's in control but is he. Is he <em>really.)</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	and we stick to our guns (and we love like battleships)

Aaron doesn't know how he manages it, but even naked and underneath him, Hamilton is infuriating. 

"Getting shy now?" Hamilton is smirking up at him, which is particularly out of place considering that he's gasping for breath and his throat is mottled with bitemarks. Aaron is in control here; Hamilton has no business smiling like he's won. "You're still overdressed."

That may be true, but Aaron isn't going to admit as much. Instead he shuts Hamilton up by kissing him, hard enough to bruise, Aaron biting at Hamilton's lower lip until they both taste iron. Hamilton's hips roll upward — so _demanding_ even now that Aaron's got him bruised and not-quite-bleeding — and Aaron _snarls,_ shoves him back down. 

Hamilton's hands find their way up Aaron's shirt, his finger callused and his palms searing hot, a trail of flame up Aaron's sides. Aaron considers pushing them away, but then Hamilton runs his fingernails down Aaron's chest and he can't think about anything. Not that Aaron keeps trying. 

He leans down, sucks a little at the bruises that are just beginning to show on Hamilton's neck until Hamilton groans and lifts his chin for better access. Total surrender. If Aaron had a knife it would be an invitation; as is, it only fans the flames that are burning in Aaron's blood. 

Hamilton tries to buck upward but Aaron's holding him down, his other hand wrapped in Hamilton's hair. He pulls, just a little, and Hamilton _moans,_ his vocal chords vibrating under Aaron's teeth. 

"You're still overdressed," Hamilton murmurs when Aaron pulls away, but his voice is slurred now and his eyes, already dark, are now unfocused and obsidian-black. He reaches out to unbutton Aaron's shirt, but wine and want make his fingers fumble as he isn't going quickly enough, so Aaron pushes his hands away and does it himself. He's barely shrugged it off his shoulders when Hamilton latches onto his collarbone, and Aaron might laugh at his enthusiasm if he weren't otherwise occupied with the tongue that's running over the skin of his throat. 

Aaron's eyes flutter shut when Hamilton runs his hands down his sides again; they settle on his hips, warm through the cloth. Hamilton reaches up and kisses him again, gentler this time, and there's a jolt in the pit of Aaron's stomach that means he's falling fast. 

That's dangerous, with Hamilton. Loving him is like loving a black hole, and Aaron is entirely too close to the event horizon. He should stop, should pull away and put his shirt back on and leave Hamilton's apartment and go back home, before he passed the point of no return. 

Aaron pulls Hamilton closer, deepens the kiss from something sweet into something hungry, and Hamilton — _Alexander_ — responds in kind, kissing him like a drowning man gasps for air, and Aaron knows he's lost. 

There is no going back from this. Aaron wouldn't want to.


End file.
